


something of an open book

by pocketfoxs



Category: Jackaby - William Ritter
Genre: F/M, aka the drunk fic, i haven't written fic in like four whole ass years, jackaby is not adjusting well, love that for me!!, post-the dire king
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22141786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketfoxs/pseuds/pocketfoxs
Summary: There are stages of intoxication: seven, to be precise. Jackaby discovers five.Not that anyone is counting.(But he is definitely counting.)
Relationships: Charlie Cane/Abigail Rook, Jenny Cavanaugh/R. F. Jackaby
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	something of an open book

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born as a result of the Jackaby discord server and is extremely self-indulgent. Enjoy!

i. pre-intoxication 

There’s already a pretty pink blush spreading unevenly across Hank Hudson’s cheeks as he extends an arm and shakes an open bottle of ale in Jackaby’s general direction. There’s just enough amber colored liquid inside that it sloshes over the glass rim and forms small, bubbly puddles in the dips of his knuckles. 

Scowling, Hank reaches across the kitchen table — newly purchased, at Abigail’s plea — and uses his hook to snatch up a hand towel and dry himself off. He flings the towel behind him, and judging by the several _thuds_ that follow, Jackaby suspects it must have collided with the fruit cauldron. 

His suspicions are confirmed as an orange or perhaps an apple rolls across the floor, quickly disappearing from his line of sight. He gathers himself up to collect it, but is interrupted as Hank begins to whine.

“Come _on_ , R.F.,” the hunter sighs, eyes widening to adopt a look more akin to a puppy than a 50-something year old man. 

Jackaby arches an eyebrow, and there’s an amused hum from the far corner of the room. He glances over — meets a sparkling pair of warm, soft eyes. Jenny grins as they lock gazes, her spectral hair twisting and turning around her in slow waves. Realistically, he knows his heart does nothing but begin to pound just a little bit harder in his chest, but he could swear it genuinely skips a beat at Jenny’s smile. Warmth floods his cheeks. After a moment, Jackaby purses his lips. He feigns annoyance in regards to Hank's begging, but narrows his eyes in what he imagines is thinly disguised amusement. 

Dragging his attention back to Hank, Jackaby pushes himself away from the counter where he had been leaning. He shoves one hand into the depths of his pocket and uses the other to wrangle with the nest of black hair atop his head.

“You know I don’t drink —”

“To keep a clear head, blah blah blah. But ya’ don’t even need to have a clear head anymore, though, do ya’?” Hank leans forward in his chair, his hooked-arm resting on the table, and points rather dramatically to his widened eyes. He’s trying to make a point.

As if Jackaby doesn't already know.

Hank cocks an eyebrow when Jackaby neither says nor does anything in response, and then falls heavily back against the chair, folding his arms across the chest. Jackaby shakes his head softly, ignoring the weight in his chest. He backs up slowly until he's once more pressed up against the counter, then drops his attention to his shoes.

To his right, there’s a soft huff somewhere between amusement and consideration. Out of the corner of his eye, he looks toward Charlie, sat upon the kitchen table despite Jackaby’s complaints.

( _"That's where some of the faeries collect their honey!"_

_"We'll, there aren't any faeries here now, are there? Oh, I suppose you wouldn't... er, that is... there isn't any honey out, anyway... Abigail? Can I sit here?"_

_"Hm? Oh, yes. Do you think wine? Or champagne?"_

_“Miss Rook! Please! "_

_"Both...? Both."_ )

Now, atop the counter, Charlie grins sheepishly. It has been nearly five months since the man died (quite traumatically — one of the things they have in common) only to be revived a few days later by the Twine.

The first few weeks of his revival had left Charlie drained and sickly, with an ashen quality to his skin. Stomaching food had been hard for him, and there had been several occasions where his canine side had abruptly appeared unannounced, startling the entire household. Abigail had refused to leave his bedside over those weeks despite Jackaby’s reassurances that this was normal, that he would be fine. 

Apparently, there was something off about his aura.

Not that he understood what that meant anymore.

Charlie has long since recovered. His cheeks are now flooded with tipsy warmth and, as he leans over the edge of the counter toward Jackaby, strength ripples in his forearms. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to… but one bottle won’t hurt.”

“And,” cries a new voice from the doorway, “this is a celebration!” 

The four of them turn to watch as Abigail swans into the room, clutching a bottle of red wine in one hand and champagne in the other. There’s a slight sway to her step and a flush to her cheeks as she hurries to the table and sets the bottles down with perhaps a bit too much force. She had insisted she wouldn't drink too much, but he suspects she's perhaps overestimated her abilities.

Jackaby looks away as she spins on her heels in an attempt to meet his gaze. _Yes_ , he thinks, hunching his shoulders, _a celebration. A celebration for another closed case…_

He thinks he hears a huff of frustration, but if it was ever there at all, Abigail cuts it off just as quickly as it began. “You should relax a little,” she says softly. 

Behind her, a gun fires off. 

Or rather, the champagne bottle does. The cork shoots across the room with impressive force. It cuts straight through Jenny, who has floated to the opposite side of the table of Hank, and collides with the large skeleton hanging from the ceiling. The bones sway for a moment, and although Jackaby doubts it would ever fall, he still tenses up.

Hank breaks the silence with a snort, bubbles flowing from the mouth of the bottle in his grasp. With his hook, he pulls a glass across the table towards him, and begins to pour.

Jenny whips around, her face burning grey in anger; Abigail carries on the conversation before Hank loses his other hand. 

“Really, sir,” she says, reaching for a bottle of wine and a clean glass. Jackaby watches the liquid splash around the rim, but ultimately settle back into the cup. Abigail holds it out to him; he eyes it with wrinkled nose. “We’d love to have you join... and, I don't know, you might enjoy it?”

For a moment, he considers it. Hank is right in saying he doesn’t _technically_ need a clear head any longer. But then, there’s the cases — he says as much. Charlie blows out his cheeks, a quiet but incredulous laugh following close behind.

“You don’t help with cases anymore, though,” he mumbles into his bottle of ale. It isn't a bitter comment; it's just a drunken statement, not meant to attack or accuse. Regardless, Jackaby feels the blow as if Charlie had physically struck his chest.

Abigail glares at Charlie, her jaw clenching. The latter avoids her gaze, ducking his head in regret.

Charlie’s right, anyways — he doesn’t help with cases. But the next case — he’ll help with the next one, for sure. 

(Or at least, that’s what he's been telling himself for the last five months)

…It isn’t that he doesn’t _want_ to help with cases — honest, he does.

Fae knows he’d love to be back in the New Fiddleham streets. Hell, he might even _enjoy_ speaking with Marlowe again. But ever since the battle with the Dire King… ever since ~~his entire goddamn world shattered~~ he passed the Sight on to Abigail, the idea of facing the world makes his stomach twist into knots and his throat clench until he can't breathe.

Instead of going out, he occasionally sorts through and organizes files while Abigail and Charlie run off to investigate. But if that isn't an option, which he often finds it isn’t, he typically spends the day in his chair with a cup of tea and a novel (enjoyable enough, but he can only read _Wuthering Heights_ so many times) or he'll sleep the day away (the much preferred option — it’s quiet, and he doesn’t have to _think_ ).

The thing is, when Jackaby was young, he adopted his job as a private investigator in order to put his role as the Seer to good use. It was his abilities that saved humans and creatures alike. Jackaby himself had been... a puppet, almost. As much as he loves being able to sleep, as much as he loves the lack of nightmares… he's nothing without the Sight. 

Jackaby swallows around a thick lump welling in the center of his throat. His eyes flutter shut, his lips press together into a thin line. 

“...Fine.”

The word comes out weaker than he intended, but if he’s being honest with himself, it really could never have come out any other way. What follows is a heavy silence that makes the wretched knots twist in his abdomen. His fingers dance impatiently at his side, and he nervously shifts his weight from foot to foot, hollowing his cheeks.

Hank finally breaks the silence, first with a short series of laughter, then with a hiccup. Then, finally: “What.... really?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Jenny drift towards him. He feels the weight of her palm on his shoulder. “You really don’t need to, dear,” she murmurs, squeezing once — twice. The pressure is calming, and he leans into it ever so slightly. 

When he looks up, he looks up at her; she almost seems to be more solid than usual. Jenny cocks her head, blinking at him and twisting her lips in uncertainty. Jackaby draws in a subtle but deep breath; holds it; releases.

“Of course I don't need to,” he agrees finally, plastering on a lop-sided grin. "But like you said, Miss Rook... time to relax a little." 

At first, he tries to look Abigail in the eyes. But her stormy grey gaze cuts into him, and his heart plummets. Although he's beaming at her, he looks just over her shoulder. If she realizes this, she doesn't comment on it. Perhaps she's used to it by now.

At his side, Jenny makes a small noise in the back of her throat, giving his shoulder a gentle but insistent shake. He looks to her, hoping his eyes don't betray the hard rock that has formed in his stomach. 

Her eyes search his; it always make him squirm when she does this. Before, his eyes were a locked door. Somehow, he lost that security, and became something of an open book. Before Jenny can find what she’s looking for, he twists on his heels, examining the options before him.

The left of the table offers him only one option. He tasted a drop of wine as a child; it had made him gag. Granted that was nearly 20 years ago now, but he still finds he's in no hurry to repeat the experience. The right side provides champagne, ale, and a half empty bottle of rum Hank brought. After a moment of consideration, Jackaby gestures to the bottle of ale that had started this mess in the first place.

Everyone likes beer, right?

Hank sits up a little straighter. It appears that he tries to adopt a stoic, or perhaps cautious look, but his eyes are dancing in anticipation. Jackaby can’t count the amount of times Hank has tried to get him to drink — the hunter is finally getting his wish.

“You sure?” Hank asks gruffly, grabbing the bottle perhaps a little too eagerly. Jackaby starts to respond, but cuts himself off. Hank is already lurching to his feet and swerving around the corner of the table. Stopping by his side, he shoves the bottle into Jackaby's hand, then claps him firmly on the center of his back. The impact sends Jackaby stumbling forward; he catches himself on the table, huffing softly in amusement. He steadies himself, then looks down at the bottle in his hand, giving himself a final chance to back out.

If this had happened six months ago, he would never even have gotten this far. 

He was a good person back then; he _did_ things, he _helped_ people. 

What was he now? An empty shell?

If he scowls right now like he wants to, he suspects Jenny, or perhaps even Abigail, might snatch the drink out of his hands. They’re both watching him with furrowed brows — he’s not used to people being able to read him so easily. No one ever _used_ to be able to read him unless he wanted them to.

Well.

That’s not true.

 _She_ could.

In a few swift motions, Jackaby downs the entire bottle of ale. 


End file.
